


all you have is your fire

by extasiswings



Series: all the ashes in my wake [2]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Episode Tag, F/M, Garcia Flynn Human Disaster, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, The Red Scare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 05:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10327247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: He wants tobestopped. WantsLucyto stop him before he can put the final nails in the coffin of his damnation.Admitting that feels like a betrayal.





	1. Chapter 1

Benjamin Cahill wasn’t born in 1954. He was, in fact, born a few years earlier—at least according to his employee file at UCSF.

Which means that Flynn can go back to 1954 and take out Rittenhouse—including Lucy’s grandfather—and she should be fine.

Should be.

There’s always a chance something could go wrong, that if Cahill grows up without a father it might change just enough that he won’t meet Lucy’s mother, but the odds of that...well, he doesn’t actually know.

(Anthony could have told him, but Anthony’s gone, another casualty in this godforsaken crusade)

The point is though, Lucy should be safe. So he doesn’t need to hesitate—he can go back, get the meeting location, blow the place to high heaven, and be done with this whole business without repercussions.

That knowledge should be a relief—he’s almost done, can almost rest.

It’s not. 

Because when it comes down to it, it’s not just about Lucy. It’s about the fact that he sat in a church—light filtering through stained glass, illuminating all the relics, chasing away all the shadows except those inside of him—sat there and begged God to show him another way, or else to let him catch a stray bullet, to stop him, to lift the weight of death and destruction from his soul.

To absolve him.

And there, with the shadows in his mind closing in, he heard nothing.

_Why did you take them from me? Why set me on this path?_

Nothing.

He’s so tired. Tired of the violence, of the killing, of the grief. There’s no saving his soul, but he wants to stop anyway.

He wants to _be_ stopped. Wants _Lucy_ to stop him before he can put the final nails in the coffin of his damnation. 

Admitting that feels like a betrayal.

 

I.

_Dubrovnik, 2007_

_There's music coming from the roof. From the window, Flynn can see Lorena swaying in time with it as she pins sheets up on the clothesline. If he were to get closer he's almost certain he would hear her humming._

_After weeks away—in sand and dust and dirt, where blood and misery had been burned into his mind—it's a welcome sight._

_He doesn't say a word, just drops his bag by the door and leans against the frame to watch her, an easy smile on his lips. When Lorena turns to pick up the next sheet, she shrieks, hand jumping to her chest in surprise, then laughs._

_"Garcia! Don't scare me like that! **Bože** , you're like a cat."_

_He desperately needs a shower—his skin feels too tight, having accumulated a thin layer of grime from sweat and dust and the recycled air of planes that's all too apparent to him—but when Lorena reaches out her hands for him, he can't help but go to her._

_Roses are in season—Flynn catches the scent when he presses his nose to her hair, despite the fact that her curls are bare of flowers at the moment. The few deep breaths he takes there do wonders for chasing away the scent memory of smoke and ash that's been with him for days._

_(If he's holding her too tightly, she doesn't seem to mind. Her arms around him are just as strong, and not for the first time he wonders if he should consider switching career paths)_

_The song changes in the background and Lorena shifts back enough to look at him._

_"Will you dance with me, **Ljubavi**?" She murmurs. _

_"I suppose," Flynn replies, moving his hands to her waist. "If I must."_

_"Yes, you must. I'm fairly certain it was in our vows."_

_He laughs as Lorena slips her arms around his neck, her eyes sparkling in the slowly dimming daylight._

_"Was it?" He asks as they begin to sway. "I don't remember that one."_

_She hums and turns her cheek against his chest. "Yes, it came right after the love and honor bit. **I promise to always dance with my wife when she asks.** ”_

_“I suppose I must have been distracted,” Flynn teases, setting his lips to her hair again._

_“Well, you did have a very beautiful woman standing in front of you. It’s to be expected.”_

_**What did I do to deserve you** , he thinks, tension draining out of him with each moment he spends in her arms. He’s not sure it could have been anything he’s done in this life—it’s been too full of violence and death for that—but he’s grateful for whatever it was nonetheless. _

_Flynn kisses her when the song ends, a slow and gentle thing, and Lorena sighs against his mouth._

_“Welcome home.”_

_They leave the sheets on the roof._

 

II.

_Washington D.C, 1954_

It’s almost laughably easy to manipulate McCarthy into putting Lucy right where Flynn wants her. 

He has everything he needs to go through with the plan now, it’s just a matter of going to the meeting place and setting it all up. But he can’t do it, won’t do it, until he speaks with her.

He thinks he’s prepared, thinks he knows exactly what he’ll say, how she’ll respond. She has to think he’s a monster by now, after Jesse James, after Capone, after everything. How can she think anything else?

Flynn doesn’t realize how badly he’s miscalculated until he’s already in the middle of it.

Lucy sees right through him, rips through his walls and defenses, picks him apart so thoroughly that he can’t breathe.

(She’s always had a knack for that, but he really thought he’d made progress since their last meeting, thought that for once maybe she wouldn’t zero in on his most vulnerable points with minimal effort. He was wrong)

“God, I swear, this game we keep playing. Nobody wins, nobody loses, people keep dying. What’s the body count so far? And for what?”

There’s a number on his lips, the most accurate accounting of his sins that he’s managed to calculate when lying awake at night, but he swallows it back. He knows logically that the exchange—two lives for so many, far too many—is wholly disproportional. But to him, those two lives are everything.

(Except...except there’s one life he won’t sacrifice to his crusade, and that’s Lucy’s. Part of him hates her for that)

“You want to stop Rittenhouse, we’ll help you. But not like this.”

“How?” _Give me a reason_ , Flynn thinks. _Give me a solution. Please._

Lucy’s silent and his heart sinks. She doesn’t have one.

It’s almost funny. The one time he wants her to stop him, the one time it matters most, and suddenly now she’s at a loss. 

In his mind, the hammer falls.

“Goodbye, Lucy.” 

 

III.

_Dubrovnik, 2008_

_The clock reads 02:36AM when Flynn opens his eyes and it takes him a moment to figure out what woke him. At his side, the sheets are cool._

_“Lorena?”_

_A small noise comes from the bathroom, light shining through the crack under the door. He climbs out of the bed and crosses the room before knocking lightly at the wood._

_“ **Mila** , is everything all right?” _

_There’s a muffled sob and alarm bells ring in his head. Without waiting for permission, he opens the door to see Lorena sitting on the edge of the bathtub, wiping hastily at her eyes._

_Her nightdress is stained with red._

_At first it hardly registers—his mind blanks out before his gaze flashes to hers, worry and fear twisting his stomach._

_(It could be normal, could be nothing, but why would she be crying if it is?)_

_“Garcia, go back to sleep,” Lorena says, offering a watery smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine.”_

_**You’re bleeding** , Flynn thinks._

_“You’re crying,” he points out._

_“It’s nothing.”_

_“Lorena.” Flynn drops to his knees in front of her, rests a hand on her hip, the other coming up to cup her cheek._

_Lorena closes her eyes and leans into the touch. When her mask breaks, when tears slip past her eyelashes and down her cheeks, he’s there to wipe them away._

_“I thought I—” Her voice breaks. “I’m fine, truly, you shouldn’t worry. I just...I missed last month when you were gone and I was hoping—I really thought I might be—”_

_Oh._

_“You didn’t say anything.” It’s not an accusation, merely a statement of fact, the first thing to come to mind as he wraps his arms around her. Lorena presses her face to his neck and if his sleep shirt grows damp, well, that doesn’t matter._

_“I wasn’t sure,” she whispers. “I wanted to be sure.”_

_Flynn kisses her hair, her cheek, the side of her head—anywhere he can reach without displacing her._

_“It’ll happen,” he soothes. “We have plenty of time. There’s no rush.”_

_“I know,” Lorena replies. “I know that, but—Garcia, you’re gone so often, and I understand, I do, but you leave me here and I’m so—”_

_**Alone.** _

_Flynn’s stricken. The room feels too small, the walls closing in around them as a wave of guilt crashes over him. It’s not that he’s never thought about it, about the impact of his job on Lorena, but she’s never said a word, never asked him to make changes, to take more time off—_

_He should have realized._

_Flynn sits back on his heels, his hands dropping down to take hers before he brings them to his lips._

_“ **Volim te** , Lorena,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry, **mila. Volim te.** ”_

_Lorena twists one of her hands free to tip his chin up, her thumb passing over his cheek._

_“I know you do,” she acknowledges quietly. “I know.”_

_“If it’s what you want—”_

_“It is.”_

_“Then we'll try."_

_It's nearly sunrise by the time they get back to bed, but neither of them care. Lorena falls asleep in his arms, and Flynn...he thinks about the future._


	2. Chapter 2

IV.

_**Dubrovnik, 2008** _

_"Lorena? I'm home," Flynn calls as he steps through the door._

_"In here," Lorena replies, her voice echoing from the kitchen._

_When he reaches the other room, he's greeted with a blinding smile before she throws herself into his arms._

_"Happy to see me?" Flynn teases, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips when she swats at his chest._

_Instead of answering such a ridiculous question, Lorena laughs, bright and ringing, and leans up on her toes to kiss him properly._

_"Missed you," she breathes between kisses, squeaking when Flynn's hands slide down to her hips and lift her._

_"Careful!" She laughs again, hands scrambling to find purchase on his shoulders. "I'm slightly more breakable these days."_

_He's never put her down more quickly or carefully as he does then, taking a step back and staring at her with wide eyes._

_Is she saying..._

_"Lorena..."_

_When Lorena smiles then it's soft and secretive, almost teasing, and she positively glows with happiness._

_Flynn's voice is caught in his throat, too many emotions—joy, fear, caution, love, so much love—stopping everything he wants to say. Finally though, he manages to ask._

_"Are you—?"_

_There are tears in Lorena's eyes when she nods, but she's radiant, incandescent—she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen._

_Flynn kisses her fiercely, though his arms around her are gentle. When he breaks the kiss, he doesn't protest when she takes one of his hands and guides it over her abdomen._

_"Happy anniversary, Garcia."_

_**I'm going to be a father...** _

_It's the greatest gift she's ever given him._

 

V.

_Washington D.C, 1954_

“Flynn.”

Flynn whips around, bringing his gun up on instinct even as Wyatt hisses Lucy’s name from behind her. It strikes him that if not for her, the soldier would have had a fairly clean shot so long as he was willing to take it. And yet, there she is, standing between a gun and its target yet again, only this time, for reasons Flynn can’t begin to understand, he’s the one she’s protecting.

 _Don’t_ , he thinks. _I’m not worth it. Let him take the shot._

He’s half-wild with desperation—so close to the end, literally holding the final piece in his hands—that for the briefest instant dropping the charge with all of them inside seems like a good idea.

But he can’t. 

“I know that you’re not a bad man. I know you’re hurting. I know you don’t want to kill a room full of people upstairs.”

Flynn almost laughs. _Really, Lucy? You know that? That’s what you know?_

Three hours ago she’d stood in front of him asking about the body count, asking what it was for as if she didn’t know, and now she wants to help him? Now she understands?

“I don’t want to kill them, I have to kill them,” he replies. “To put my wife and child back on this earth.”

Don’t you get it? That’s what all of this has been about. And if it works...if it works, it will all have been worth it.

“It won’t work.”

Flynn flinches as Lucy’s words land like physical blows. _Don’t say that. It has to. It’s the only thing I have left._

“You don’t know that.” His voice trembles, but his hand on the switch is steady. “And both of you would do the same.”

He thinks about Chicago, 1893, about Lucy standing in front of him as he laced her corset, saying that she would do anything to get her sister back. He’d called her a hypocrite then, but now—

“You’re right,” Lucy admits. “You’re right. We would.”

Flynn can read the truth of it in her gaze amidst compassion, empathy, her own grief on display for him to see. It shakes him to his core.

“I prayed to God for answers,” he explains. “And he led me here. To this.”

_He didn’t stop me. He never has. And if he hasn’t, maybe that’s a sign that this is right._

“What if he led you to me?”

Flynn’s world tips on its axis and for a moment he’s struck dumb. He hears what Lucy says afterwards, about having a plan to stop Rittenhouse, but he can’t move past that simple question.

_What if he led you to me?_

_Oh._

All this time—all the candles, all the prayers, all the contemplation—and it’s been her from the beginning. Of course. Of course it has been—he’s just been unable to see it.

_God works in mysterious ways, Garcia._

(It’s Lorena’s voice, the echo of too many memories to count, and of course he would hear her now as well)

Flynn lowers the gun. 

 

VI.

_**Dubrovnik, 2013** _

_Flynn’s eyes open at the creak of the bedroom door, but at his side Lorena doesn’t stir. The small figure in the doorway freezes. Shifting carefully so as to not disturb his wife, he sits up._

_“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He asks. Still not leaving the doorway, Iris bites her lip, her fingers worrying the hem of her sleep shirt._

_“I can’t sleep, Daddy,” she whispers. “There’s a monster under my bed.”_

_Flynn weighs the options in his mind—considering his own exhaustion and the odds of actually getting her to go back to sleep alone in her own room—and then lifts the corner of his blanket._

_Iris scampers across the room and clambers up onto the bed, tucking herself firmly against his side._

_“Do you want to tell me about this one?” Flynn strokes his daughter’s hair, only pausing for a moment when she shakes her head and hides her face against his chest._

_“Okay,” he sighs. “That’s okay, you don’t have to. We’ll take care of it tomorrow. For now, just go back to sleep.”_

_“ **Volim te** , Daddy.” The response is muffled, but he hears it clearly enough and bends down to kiss the top of Iris’s head._

_“Goodnight, **Cvijet moj**. **Volim te**.”_

 

VII.

_Washington D.C, 1954_

Ethan Cahill is...nothing like Flynn expects. Considering that Lucy’s plan hinges on trusting her grandfather, and that her faith in him seems unshakeable despite having only just met him, he perhaps shouldn’t be surprised. But he’s spent so long building up an idea in his mind about Rittenhouse and their members that he can’t help it.

Part of him—the shadowed pessimistic part—can’t help wondering if he’s made a mistake in letting Lucy take him away from the Rittenhouse summit. But then he looks at her, at the determination on her face, and he reminds that part of him that if anyone could pull off something like this, it’s Lucy.

He trusts her. He’s trusted her from the very beginning.

There’s no reason to stop now.

(And if he can trust her, Ethan certainly should as her grandfather)

More importantly—

“I’ll go with Flynn in the Mothership.”

—Lucy trusts him. 

There’s a tension, a weight, that falls away at that knowledge. That he’s worth trusting. That the journal isn’t a fantasy after all.

_What if he led you to me?_

_Yes._

After depositing Ethan back at his home, Flynn and Lucy begin making their way back to where Emma is waiting with the Mothership. Neither of them speak at first, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. There’s a lightness to the air now, and Flynn feels like he can truly breathe for the first time since his family died.

How do you thank someone for bringing light back into your life? For believing in you? For saving you? Words seem so inadequate.

He says them anyway.

“Thank you, Lucy. I—for everything.”

Just as he thought. Woefully inadequate.

Lucy shakes her head. “Don’t thank me yet. You don’t have to thank me at all, but especially not yet. It’s still not over. It might not work.”

“It’ll work,” Flynn insists and for a moment the role reversal is jarring.

“If it doesn’t?” 

He doesn’t want to think about that possibility—not when he’s given up what might be the best chance he’s had so far. But...there are worse things in the world than being wrong.

“If it doesn’t, I still have a time machine.” It would hurt, might nearly kill him to start over again, but for now he’s trying something new.

Lucy stops—the Mothership is in sight now and Flynn can see Emma in the doorway watching the two of them warily—and looks at him for a long moment. Just looks, as though he’s a puzzle she can’t quite figure out.

“What’s in that journal?” She asks finally. “Let’s just say for the sake of argument that I did write it—”

“You did,” Flynn interrupts, and she narrows her eyes at him until he’s biting back a smile.

“ _If_ I wrote it...what could it possibly have in it that would make you have so much faith in me? Because it’s not just today, it’s—from the beginning, at the Hindenburg you said—and I can’t imagine why.”

“Maybe I’ll let you read it one day,” he replies. 

“I suppose that would only be fair. Since it’s mine.”

Flynn laughs. “Oh, now it’s yours? A minute ago it was _if_.”

“I’m just saying, if you really think it’s mine you should give it back.”

“I don’t know about that,” he teases. “What’s the phrase? Finders keepers?”

Lucy blinks at him, then bursts out laughing. The way she looks—happy, at ease with the world—reminds him of the Houdini show. This time though, she doesn’t hide her smiles from him. And the knowledge that he wants to see them, wants to cause them, doesn’t hurt as much as it did then. 

“Are you two coming, or am I leaving you here?” Emma calls from the ship, her arms crossed over her chest. Flynn bites his cheek to hold back another laugh and nods at Lucy.

“Shall we?”

“Let’s see if we did it,” she agrees.

He helps her into the ship, her hand warm in his. They fit together better than he would have expected—or, at least, better than he previously allowed himself to imagine. 

A moment later, he’s on his knees in front of her seat, helping her with the buckle she can’t quite manage by herself. 

They’re incredibly close—closer than they’ve been since the World’s Fair—and when their eyes meet, Flynn feels a familiar spark flicker to life between them. 

“Lucy, when we get back—”

“Yes?”

_Can I see you again?_

The unspoken words linger between them, his tongue suddenly useless. Finally, he drops his eyes and clears his throat.

“You’ll call me? When you have the information?”

If she’s disappointed, it’s easy to convince himself it’s only in his mind.

“Of course.”

 

VIII.

_Present Day_

Lucy calls. 

The flash drive she presses into his hand is a blessing—one more trip, a few more lives ended, and then it really will be over.

 _What about you?_ Flynn wants to ask. _How does your version of this end?_

_“I would do anything to get my sister back.”_

_Let me help you_ , he wants to offer. _Come with me and let me help you. Let me make it right._

He gives her the journal instead. She’s right—it’s only fair. And he doesn’t need it anymore.

_Can I see you again?_

God, he wants to. 

_What if he led you to me?_

“Take it from me,” Flynn says. “You age surprisingly well.”

“What are you talking about?”

When Lucy laughs, he laughs with her. When she smiles, he smiles. He’s happy. He’s at peace.

(He’s falling in love)

And then, without warning, he isn’t.

 

IX.

_**2014** _

_There’s a bench in the graveyard near where Lorena and Iris are buried. Sometimes, after he visits, Flynn stops there and sits, unable to stare at the gravestones any longer but unable to leave either. Sometimes he’ll sit for minutes, but usually it’s hours._

_Today it’s hours._

_He doesn’t think anything of the woman in black when she settles next to him—in a graveyard, there’s a general understanding between visitors to leave each other alone with their own grief—but he goes cold when she speaks._

_“Hello, Garcia.”_

_Flynn doesn’t turn, merely cuts his eyes over to her. She doesn’t look dangerous, but then, appearances can be deceiving._

_“Do I know you?”_

_Her lips curve up as if he’s said something amusing, but whatever the joke is, he’s not party to it._

_“Not yet. But you will.”_

_**What?** _

_“If you’re Intelligence, I don’t do that anymore. So whatever you’re looking for—”_

_“Garcia,” she interrupts, setting a hand on his arm. His mouth snaps shut and he stares down, his focus narrowing to that point of contact._

_She’s not gripping him, not holding on, just...touching. Casually. So easily that it could be a habit._

_“I’m not an agent of anything,” she continues. “I’m not a spy. I’m a historian. And my name is Lucy Preston.”_

_“If we’ve never met, how do you know my name?” Flynn asks._

_“I know everything about you,” Lucy remarks. “Because even if you don’t know it yet, we’re going to do great things, you and I.”_

_“That doesn’t make any sense.”_

_“It will.”_

_She moves her hand to rummage through the small bag at her side, and though Flynn is prepared for her to pull a weapon of some kind, she comes up with a leather-bound, somewhat tattered journal._

_“This will tell you everything you need to know,” Lucy explains, passing it over. “About me, about Rittenhouse—”_

_Flynn freezes. “Rittenhouse? Are you—how do you—”_

_“Don’t worry,” she interrupts. “You can trust me. We’re going to destroy them. Together. It’s all in there.”_

_His eyes travel over her face, trying to place it or just burn it into his memory. There’s something familiar about her, something in the back of his mind that says he should know her, believe her, trust her._

_Lucy remains still as Flynn assesses her—he expects she might have been doing the same to him—but as soon as he relaxes, she leans in and brushes her lips across his cheek._

_If the touch to his arm was casual, the kiss is not. It lingers—too close to his own mouth to be anything but intimate—but for some reason, that doesn’t make his skin crawl the way it maybe should._

_“Goodbye, Garcia,” she murmurs, leaning back and moving to stand._

_He has so many questions, so many thoughts, and yet all he can think to say is—_

_“Who are you?”_

_The same smile from before graces her lips, secretive and a little sad, and the ghost of something pangs in his chest at the sight._

_“I told you,” she replies. “Lucy.”_

_(What he means, of course, is **Who are you to me** , but she’s gone before he can force the words past his lips)_

_**Lucy. Lucy Preston.** _

_Flynn looks down at the journal, runs his fingers over the worn cover, and then slowly, warily, he opens it to the first page._


End file.
